All posts by Licketysplit

No picture, for I am pressed for time

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Last night I had to wrangle a baby of my acquaintance because his mum had the pukes, which he thoughtfully gave to her. He’s all better, don’t worry. We made a pizza, and we had a nasty disagreement over how much oregano to use. Then he was still steamed about that, so I agreed to make him an Americano*. Once I finished, he was all “But I wanted that iced,” and I was all “Things that could have been brought to my attention YESTERDAY.”

But we patched it up with some active listening, and then he took his first steps! He doesn’t even reach 10 months for another few days. They were pretty half-assed steps, but they totally counted, and then he did them again. The secret to teaching a baby to walk is to dangle a Chinese menu just out of his reach.

He finally passed out in my lap after about 6 Baby Einstein DVDs. Those movies rule! They made me want to smoke so much oregano. I have to get him from daycare later. I think we will make homemade ice cream and sharpen all the knives in the knife block.

I hope I don’t catch the pukes. Also, I am out of oregano. No good can come of this.

*I did not really make coffee for a 10-month-old. We just ate frosting out of a tub from Costco, duh.

Just-so story: file under famous, international

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I’m back in greater Massachusetts. I saw a lot of dogs in Baltimore. That was great! I love dogs. Every other block, one could say “Look at that dog,” and mean it.

I was not discovered on the shuttle. I can’t understand why not, after all that special treatment in Baltimore, such as the car service being on time. Way to get a girl’s hopes up. It’s just as well, because my hair was a mess.

I am tired of worrying about all the usual things I worry about. This is mindblowing. I no longer make a daily “Or Else” list. If the laundry needs doing, I, you know, do it. If I feel like meeting someone for lunch, it just happens. I’ve also discovered that I don’t suffer from social anxiety. I just don’t like most people. I’m not crazy; I’m stuck-up. What a damn load off.

Saddled by cilantro

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Well, holy damn. I am still in damn Baltimore. We are officially Pre-Famous! There are a lot of perks that seem to go along with Pre-Fame. Men on the street hoot and compliment our bottoms, and the person making our coffee drink asks if we want whipped cream. Can you imagine? I put the “Privacy Please” sign on like a pasha.

Despite all these positive developments, I’ve developed a rash. I hope this is not related to fame, as it is rather uncomfortable. Some have posited that I am allergic to Baltimore itself. Or maybe I am allergic to crab. There seems to be ground-up crab in every dish in every restaurant. The other night we ate at the restaurant in the hotel, and the menu contained descriptions like “entwined with pasta” and “atop a puddle of…” and “carefully spiced.” I can’t stop thinking things like “beleagured by a balsamic reduction” or “hampered by roasted asparagus.” When I get a funny in my head, I will be thinking of it for days. Help me.

We took breaks from our scrivening to glance at a sporting event taking place in the television. I am not sure who won, but there was a charming advertising interlude featuring monkeys. If I worked at a company staffed entirely by actual apes, I would never, ever leave.

Futurist, evangelist, chocolate muffin

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Dogs and babies, damn. Always this. I am in Baltimore, and as I walked from my hotel to my sister’s house in Quaintsville, a dog barked at me out of the window of a car. ‘Hi dog,” I said. The barks echoed off some overly modern architecture, and the dog barked even more at the bark blowback. The light changed, and the dog was still barking as the car drove away. “Bye dog.” I always do full pleasantries with dogs. They are so much better than people and other things. I was drinking an iced mocha even though it is somewhat cold out. Sometimes I don’t feel like hot coffee. I do what I feel.

We are ostensibly working on faming, but so far we have been interrupted by a balloon delivery and some art school lesbians. Fame is hard. Fame is a grind. Fame is arm wrestling and wine spectating. Fame is a size 8, the gentleman’s C of dress sizes. It did not even occur to me that our book was so sad. People know someone who know someone who knows Steve Buscemi. Skulk, creep. LOUNGE. Did I mention it’s a post-apocalyptic wasteland here?

Full of grace

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This photo is a rare still from my audition for The Shining II: Back to the Beach. Actually, there is a perfectly logical and innocent reason I am hunkered on the floor in gross disarray, but I will leave that to your imagination. One side effect of Mr. H’s new camera purchase is that one must be prepared to be photographed at any time. Taking out the trash? Expect the paparazzi, using a high ISO setting and telling you about it, then asking you to take out the trash again under different lighting conditions. Now I know how Jennifer Anniston feels, and I am slowly learning the ropes of Extrem-Fame. I had best get knocked up so I don’t get divorced.

Once I was making my way home down Charles Street, when I passed two blond women of a certain age gawking at the window of one of the stores that sells those inexplicable quilted paisley purses. “I just never saw myself as a divorcée,” whimpered one. The other one looked incredulous: “But Boston is a GREAT town for it!”

Boston is indeed a great town, rife with Starbucks and divorce, but I am tearing myself away for a working vacation in…wait for it… East (Bal)Timor. I will be handing out bottled water and charity Christmas CDs to the natives, who will use this manna to cleanse their collective stench and build primitive huts. I am completing a round of vaccinations today, and I expect a call from my financial manager with directions on changing US dollars to Baltimorean currency. Happily, I am also skilled in barter and crude hand gestures.

This is not a whammy

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Well, maggots, I can’t get out of the freshly snow-covered driveway. The car wants to go sideways down the hill, which would be a feasible enough way to get out if not for the other cars parked below me.

It’s probably just as well that I am housebound, because I feel a good bout of incoherence coming on. I woke up from a disturbing dream that we had purchased the newest Apple product: a living organism that starts out as a carnivorous plant, and once you re-pot it, you get something like a Tasmanian devil. We quickly found ourselves wondering why the hell we bought this vicious thing, and it ended up running off and living under our neighbor’s house. From time to time, we’d see it in the yard, catching snakes. When it started to bite the neighbor’s children, we decided we had to kill it, so we spent several days sneaking up and luring it with raw steaks and chicken breasts, planning to set it on fire.

It didn’t work, and then next thing you know, I was in a KMart shopping for discount tinsel garlands. I was forced to do the Jumble in the paper to get the full discount. Doing the Jumble in your dream is probably the worst thing that can possibly happen. I hope you never experience this. I actually bored myself awake.

Then I called some senators and left messages about torture. It was easy and fun. Not torture, the calling. Press-a the buttons, hello, hello. They HAVE to be nice to you. You can get more details here: The Biscuit Report.

I am off to shovel, all OCD-like. I don’t actually shovel so much as delicately dust with a spare pastry brush. The house boy has the day off. And this box of Twinkies won’t eat itself.

Hydrogenated States of America

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I spent last week miserably ill, but Mr. H coaxed me out on Saturday with the promise that there would be many fat people at the supermarket. The things people put in their carts! I marvel at this on a normal day, but the day before Storm of the Century AND a playoff game? Unspeakable. We got into the spirit by running up and down the aisles grabbing things we didn’t need. Organic pizza bites! Twinkies! Crab dip!

In the midst of a fever, I must have agreed to let Mr. H get a new camera, because he came home with one later that day, all “Ma,canIkeepit,therewasarebate,pleaseplease.” Thus he was able to document Storm of the Century most handily. At this rate, each photo he took only cost us $43. Here are several.

Going outside in the winter is something I try not to do. I found myself costumed in a jacket from a short-lived stab at snowboarding years ago, with yoga pants tucked into a pair of asymmetrical Camper knee boots and oven mitts on my hands. I started shoveling, but then, as Melvin would say, “J’ai éprouvé un sentiment insupportable d’inutilité.” I gave up and crawled in through the trunk and backed out. The snow just stayed on top of the roof and hood, molded as if Gaudí himself shat it there. Then Mr. Plow came, and I went in for a drink.

Death from above. There is no reason to go outside.

Sunset, tower window. These are secret messages, saying that I should eat a Twinkie.

Quatre ans sans lumière

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En conséquence toute l’expérience a montré, cette humanité sont plus disposée pour souffrir, alors que les maux sont sufferable, que vers la droite elles-mêmes en supprimant les formes auxquelles elles sont accoutumées

(…accordingly all experience hath shewn, that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed.)

United States of Oblivia

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Happy MLK Day! Mr. H and I have the day off, which means we are going to go spend money. We will probably take the less fuel efficient car, just because.

Yesterday, we went to Andover (where white people were invented) to watch football. The fondue was awesome, and after the game, we all swapped keys. Wink, nudge.

It turns out that there weren’t only white people there. There were folks of the Indian and Latin persuasions in attendance. They won us over with their samosas, but little do they know that we sent them home with smallpox!

It was quite the thrill to watch our founding fathers, the Patriots, defeat some sort of pagan followers of a horse deity. Next week, the blue bloods will no doubt triumph over some blue collar steel workers. The rabble should learn that hope is futile.

Once more into the bleach!

Ethicist, what do you tell people when?

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My dream home would have an MRI chamber for burrowing, and this would be filled with pure oxygen delicately scented of jasmine. The chamber would be next to the plunge pool filled with slightly temperate margarine. So good for the skin!

In the mornings, I like to stay in bed for an hour or so and hallucinate. The wall bricks turn into Tetris blocks, and the floor turns into jungle foliage. The wood beams in the ceiling are pure Bosch. Once I get up, I try to focus on tasks of great industry, like arranging my shoes by color. Most of them are black, so this doesn’t take too long. I have some coffee. I might answer email from clients, and a session of zen meditation is required when I read things like “I would just like to schedule a conference call to find out what your recommendations are.” Because the email is in response to me sending a one page Dick and Jane-style document where my recommendations are clearly outlined. In fact, it was called “Recommendations for _____” followed by a set of bullet points. Maybe I should start including more clip art. “Do this, like this, says the little turtle [fig. a].”

fig. b

Ethicist, I have white spots in my fingernails again. Can you die from this? Does anyone want to plan my vacation? Mr. H is indisposed, leaving it all up to me. I read that Sri Lanka was the new Bali, but I suspect this no longer applies. My horoscope for today says “Challenges will be dealt with honorably.” I guess this means I can duel with pistols.